


Blue Flower

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Series: Blue Flower [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (more like a kept boy), Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bruce Has Issues, Castration Play, Consensual Underage Sex, Dubious Consent, Electra Complex, F/M, Fear Play, Foster Care, Heavy BDSM, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Lolita, M/M, Manipulation, Marriage of Convenience, Power Imbalance, Predicament Play, Pseudo-Incest, Shower Sex, Swordfighting, Unhealthy Relationships, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: Bruce Wayne is obsessed with his father from a young age. After Thomas Wayne's death, Bruce spends his adult life searching for a man - or boy - who can offer him the love he feels he was denied.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well - where do I start?
> 
> This is my first time playing in the nolan bat!verse, which is my only real contact with the batman canon. If I've gotten something glaringly wrong from the comics, that's because this is based entirely around the "Dark Knight" trilogy, and I didn't bother to research any further. All gaps in the film material were filled with my own headcanons.
> 
> Some obvious warnings above in the tags ^^ : in short, Bruce is pretty messed up. Don't expect a role model here. In addition, for the first and second chapters, there will be some heavy duty BDSM scenes, including (in chapter 1) a pretty brutal sequence where Bruce is essentially forced into subspace while under the influence of psychotropics.

 

_“The shock of her death froze something inside of me… but I kept looking for her, long after I had left my own childhood behind…_

_The poison was in the wound you see? And the wound wouldn’t heal…”_

_–_ “Lolita” 1997

 

 

It’s the first day of spring.

Bruce is nine.

The gardens are a paradise of childhood, ancient, cluttered, and full of hidden secrets that only the sharpest of eyes and smallest of fingers can uncover.

Some are deadlier than others, as he discovers with a scream when the slats of an old well give way under his sneakers, and his arm protests the fall by tearing away from the joint when he crashes to land on hardened, aged moss.

It seems more than plausible that the looming, darkened tunnel only a foot from his head could contain some monster from the horrors of Lovecraft tucked away in the library, and his dread is only confirmed when the storm of black, winged creatures burst from the hole and flutter maniacally around his head. He screams and tries to wriggle away, buffet them off, but the pain in his shoulder is overwhelming and he can only imagine that they’ll feast on his flesh, nibbling away tiny morsels of skin and bone until there’s nothing left of him…

He can’t be certain how long he lies still, driven into his own mind by dread, before the creak of a rope breaks through the catatonia and a gentle voice whispers through the darkness.

“Bruce…”

He whimpers once, afraid to move, afraid of the pain and the thought that if he moves, the bats will come back – the bats are going to get him, they _are –_

“Bruce… shh… it’s okay…”

Strong arms scoop him off the ground, and where his ear rests on a firm chest he can just barely hear the _tha-thump, tha-thump_ of a heart beating steadily behind layers of linen and skin.

“It’s okay… it’s all over…”

After that, it’s a blur of colors and light and sensation, fingers gently working his arm back into place, warm water cradling his body and easing the intense immediacy of the hurt, and somewhere through it all a large hand petting back his hair and stroking his brow while his father murmurs reassurance beside him, and he remembers that the possibility of anything or anyone harming him is inconceivable.

 

*

 

Given that his primary education is all received through home tutoring and his contact with other children is limited to the kids of house staff, Bruce grows up essentially sheltered from what money means. During cocktail parties, when he slips out of bed and peers between the spindles of the stair rail, stuffy grown-up conversation drifts up to the landing; from this alone he’s able to discern that his father is rich, and this means that one day he’ll be rich too, but the concept is alien. His life is only as he’s ever known it, and he isn’t unhappy. Not even with his apparently tragic motherlessness, as the old pearl-wearing women at these parties always seem so eager to point out. He’s never known or missed her, and anyway, there’s nothing that a mythological mother could give him that hasn’t already been lavished to excess by his father.

He’s certain that he wouldn’t love her quite as much.

Despite soothing words and careful promises, the nightmares surrounding the bats never really go away, and it’s around midnight when Bruce slips down the stairs and creeps into his father’s library, desperate for comfort and the safety of his arms. There’s a fire dancing in the hearth, and his father has an arm resting on Miss Earle’s back, just a few inches above her bottom. They’re kissing.

Bruce’s insides suddenly feel numb, and the soft gasp that he can’t hold back reaches the ears of the adults, who break apart at last to look over at the door.

His father smiles gently, with sympathy.

“Another bad dream?”

He nods, relief and a touch of jealous satisfaction rippling through his veins as his father picks him up and carries him back to his room, leaving Miss Earl by the fire, looking like she’s tasted something disgusting.

Eventually his eyes flutter shut, while he’s rocked back and forth, the knowledge that he’s loved – and loved more deeply than any of the pretty women who come to the house – settling over him like warm eiderdown.

Bruce lets himself sleep, dreaming of the morning when his father will come to tease him out of bed, laughing, and the promise of blueberry pancakes.

One Saturday, not long after he fell down the well, Bruce rides a bike out to the edge of the estate, where they keep the old stables. For years, the stalls and paddock yard have been empty, but the hayloft is fun to play in, and once he found a rat’s skeleton lying bleached and picked clean beside the fence.

The stalls aren’t empty today.

He recognizes Laurie – his dad fixes their cars – but the other boy doesn’t live near or on the property, and his face is strange. They’re each naked, or close to it, and as they kiss with open mouths the other boy is moving his hand somewhere out of sight, doing something that makes Laurie tremble and coo like he’s about to cry.

Bruce can’t rationalize what he’s seeing, or the feeling it elicits – like a chilled prickling all over his skin – and he simply races back to the house, not sure what to think.

Long hours of obsessive contemplation eventually lead him to the master bedroom, and the velvet lined case where his father keeps the antique stethoscope that has always been his pride and joy. The earpieces are too big and a bit uncomfortable, but he can hear his own heartbeat quivering like the wings of a hummingbird and wonders, with a faint, childish fascination, if the boys in the stable had been able to feel their own, beating frantically against their ribs.

Would his own pulse quicken if it were him under Laurie’s hand?…

“What’re you doin’, kiddo?”

He starts, whirling around, but his father doesn’t glare, doesn’t scold, merely crouches down on his knees beside him.

“Here…”

He guides the bell to his own chest, one big hand resting over Bruce’s small fingers, and lets him listen.

“Hear anything?”

Each beat forms a steady pulse in his ears, one that he matches his own breathing to, steady, shaking in and out, before he replies with a hesitant nod.

“I always thought it was so amazing, hm? How something so little could work so hard and for so long?”

His hand presses the bell back to the blue and white knit of Bruce’s sweater, kind grey eyes locked on his face, and for a moment there’s something unspoken that Bruce can feel pounding right along with his own heart – a sensation of being vulnerable and exposed in front of awesome strength – and it makes the prickling feeling travel all across his skin and pool at the base of his belly.

When he eventually escapes back to his bedroom, red-cheeked and confused, he wonders why he didn’t ask about the feeling, or what the boys in the stable were doing that morning. For some reason, it embarrasses him.

Bruce resolves himself to talking it over with his father when he goes to bed that night, but five hours later Thomas Wayne is dead in an alley, a bullet in his chest and his last words are whispered faintly to his son.

_“Don’t be afraid…”_

 

*

 

Bruce wanders aimlessly through the alleyways, wide eyed and shocked, until an officer with a kind face and glasses notices him and asks where his mother is.

Not long after that, he sits on a hard chair made from gritty black plastic inside a police station, reporters and investigative cops milling and shouting outside in the hallway, and simply waits for things to happen. Or not.

When the commissioner tells him with a guarded smile that he has good news, Bruce actually, babyishly, allows himself some glimmer of hope – that it was all a mistake, his father isn’t dead, that everything will be okay –

When he’s told that the gunman is in custody, all that flashes through his mind is simply that it doesn’t matter.

It won’t bring Daddy back.

 

* * *

 

It’s the middle of October.

Bruce is nineteen.

The courtroom is cold as a stone, and he wonders, no, hopes that Schill can remember the little boy that he foolishly left alive in that alley, hopes that he’ll recognize the reaper when it comes for him –

The press swarms around his father’s killer, screaming inane, expected questions that have no basis in reality -

“ _Has there been word from the governor-?”_

_“Will you be issuing an apology to the Wayne family -?”_

And then they’re calling his name, grim, eager surprise in their voices like a pack of nursery teachers expecting the victim to shake hands and make friends with the schoolyard psycho, and none of them can assume that six bullets are loaded and ready in the palm of his hand, so that he can exact his revenge in front of a watching world.

Only to have the opportunity stolen from him by a nameless, faceless woman bought for a price by a thug.

There’s the weakest of satisfaction in seeing Schill bleed to death before his eyes, but Bruce suddenly comes to the realization that the world has dropped out from under his feet and he’s floating, unmoored, with no reason to look back or to move forward. The one act that might have cauterized the seeping wound left behind by his father’s death is gone, and his only choice now is to watch the infection fester and swell until all that’s left is pain.

He’s known enough pain for one lifetime.

He slips away from the courthouse before Rachel can find him, takes the rotting monorail all the way to the shipping docks, and somehow finds himself at the edge of a four-decker cargo pier looking out at the water.

Princeton might not have given him much in the way of life skills, but he picked up enough trigonometry to work out that from this height, the fall wouldn’t kill him. It would hurt, excruciatingly, but this is meant to cease the pain, clamp off the diseased limb, not to prolong suffering.

It takes him an unforgivably long time to remember the unused revolver in his coat pocket.

“Not a particularly constructive undertaking, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce glances up, realizing with a twinge of surprise, that the sky is already darkened and the stars are visible. He’s been staring at the gun in his hands for longer than he’d anticipated.

Warm breath tingles against the skin of his cheekbone, and he swallows uncomfortably.

He doesn’t particularly care who this man is, or how he knows his name – he’d rather focus on the task at hand.

“I’d prefer to do this without an audience.”

“Then I fear you’ll have to be disappointed, as I’ve no intention of leaving you to commit self-slaughter.”

“What d’you care?”

The stranger sighs, as if explaining the obvious to a particularly stupid child.

“Let us say that my interest is… professional. I’ve been studying you, Mr. Wayne – you disguise your own brilliancy with misanthropy and wallow in impotent grief; a man of your talents could put his anger to better uses.”

For a while, Bruce keeps his gaze on the white-topped wavelets dashing against the docks, the revolver turned over and over in both hands.

“What do you want with me?”

“To offer you a chance to destroy what killed your father.”

“Schill’s dead.”

“That my be.” The man replies simply, before shoes scrape on pavement, signaling his departure.

“If you change your mind – the _Aladfar_ , berth three. If you’ve grown bored of wasting away like a leper and want to achieve something, be on board in ten minutes. Without the revolver.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You can’t. Berth three, Mr. Wayne.”

His footsteps faded, and he was gone.

 

*

 

When he boards the vessel, his wallet, cash, and gun all floating away in the river, Bruce realizes too late that he has no idea where he’s headed – but on the whole, he decides, it doesn’t truly matter.

 

*

 

The fortress is massive, perched atop a remote peak in the Himalayas, and separated enough from civilization that what Bruce thought he knew as the “real world” begins to feel as though it might have been a feverish, half-remembered dream.

It’s a fearsome place, where only the strong survive, and he’s fairly certain that he would have proved easy prey for the other (larger, stronger) disciples in those early months, had it not been for Ducard.

The man commands respect, with a leonine ferocity and kingly grace that few – none, Bruce privately considers – could hope to match, and being taken as his apprentice is a quiet source of pride, as is following two paces behind in his shadow while the other soldiers incline their heads with deference and murmurs of “ _Eazim Wahid…”_

At first, some lingering, withered sense of morality had done a weak battle with his growing admiration, as it doesn’t take any real genius to work out exactly what it is that Ducard and his men _do_. However, for all Ducard’s “lessons” on the power of fear, it’s ability to distort and control, he never mentions the opposite – that infatuation has exactly the same power, and what is infatuation but another manifestation of fear?

One night he’s shaken awake from a dreamless sleep, and marched by two black-masked figures to a tightly enclosed room with no windows, a high ceiling.

“You have learned to bury your guilt beneath lies and the scruples of man – it’s time you were made to confront it, and face the truth.”

It’s while he glances about the room for the source of the voice, Ducard’s hiding place, that he notices – too late - the incense braziers in the corners and that both guards are wearing not just masks, but chemical filters.

The dizziness hits him almost immediately, followed by a clammy, sickening wave of panic as both men begin stringing him up with heavy cord, one blindfolding him tightly before the other tugs on a pulley, and Bruce finds himself strangely weightless, dangling by one thigh nearly five feet above the floor.

“Once, in a more… ancient time, men believed that pain was a purifier against the devil. Pain beyond description, pain so acute that the demons which inhabited human flesh could bear it no longer and were driven back into the mouth of hell. From one hell into another, you might suppose.”

Boot falls echo through the small space, though Bruce can’t be certain how much of the sound is real and how much has been amplified by his smoke addled brain. Someone is circling him as he hangs helpless from the roof, and he hopes it’s Ducard, prays it is, that he isn’t alone in this…

“Men would be tied immobile to stakes and wheels, their bodies broken beyond all recognition… and then of course, the red hot pincers tearing away their flesh, piece by searing piece…”

Something warm wafts past his cheekbone, followed by the sulfuric odor of blistering iron, and he jerks back in alarm, swaying uselessly.

“First, emasculation…” A hand rests on his groin, and the jolt of sensation ripples through every inch of his body, nerves set alight even as he whimpers unhappily…

“Then the chest… delicate, vestigial flesh…”

Thumbs stroke his nipples, almost tenderly, through the thin shield of fabric.

“And then your thighs, arms, each fine boned finger torn away… your body will be stripped to the bone until you’ve become truly, _truly_ naked, and men will look on you and see at last into your very soul… And yet, Bruce, and yet… still living - until what remains of your ruined form is thrown to melt on the flames.”

“Y-you won’t…” he rasps out at last, trembling, while the blood pools in his skull and the drug heightens every scent, every sound already pulsing across his skin from the loss of his sight.

“Of course not; if you choose to purify yourself, you can be spared every moment of that particular horror – speak the truth, and not even these ropes will tear your skin.”

He flounders in a confused panic, and briefly struggles to free himself.

“Tell me, Bruce… say it.”

“I… I don’t…”

Something thin and rigid cracks against his shinbone, seeming to cut clean through the skin.

“ _No! N-!_ ”

“The choice was yours – you chose to be purged, rather than confess. Now – say it.”

The rod strikes him again, in a new place, and he can’t stifle the sob of fear as colors and nonsensical shapes dance in a kaleidoscope behind his sealed eyelids. The blows continue to come down, his sleep tunic shredded to rags by the curved blades of a vambrace to expose more skin to torment, and when his ribs are hit, each precisely in turn, Bruce swears he can feel each of them shatter under the impact.

“Say it.”

 _Say what?!_ he wants to bawl, but distraction comes quickly as his trousers are ripped away and the tunic pulled down to cover his head. He twists in the bindings, afraid he might suffocate, before something sharp tears a hole in the slubbed cotton, directly over his lips.

“It wouldn’t do to have any vital words muffled, would it?” Ducard murmurs, nearby but not close enough to own one of the pairs of hands readying him dispassionately for whatever is to come, and despite the pain, the way the spices burning in the corner have his head swimming and his eyes watering, he feels abandoned.

“Are you ready to speak?”

The two guards finish with him, leaving him to mewl in distress. It dawns on him suddenly that whatever Ducard is planning, suffocation might have been a mercy.

“So be it –“

Something squeaks nearby, followed by a flutter of wings, and his body stiffens in alarm –

One of the guards seizes his unbound leg, holds it tight and immobile by the calf, and the other braces his hips, steadying him. Muscles jump in his belly while a sour taste of adrenaline fills his mouth, but when a gloved hand suddenly begins palpating his testicles, fingers tightening around the fragile sac of skin and stroking at intimate places on his body that no one – living or dead – has ever touched, the dread and anxiousness take on a new tone. For the first time that night, he feels as though he’s being raped, and a little thrill of anger slices through the haze.

The next few moments come only as a fog of discomfort, while his flesh is squeezed, twisted, prodded as though both delicate organs are being forced through a tightly enclosed opening, and he begins to feel a dull, throbbing ache build between his legs.

“You’ll have little hope of a clear head after this, Bruce – if you wish to speak, speak now.”

He shudders, trying vainly to lift his head.

“I – I don’t kn – w-wha’d’you want –“

“I want you to admit what you could never bring yourself to face; what your mind ran from in a feeble effort at self protection. Just say it, and you’ll be spared what’s to come.”

Several dry, heaving sobs drag themselves from Bruce’s overworked lungs as he struggles to think – a difficult effort when sharp twinges are increasing in intensity, and he has to pant to control the pain –

“I’m sorry it comes to this – other options were open to you.”

There’s a quiet ring of metal, a snap of elastic, and without much fore sign Bruce finds himself screaming in agony, as a needle tight band closes around his balls like a vise.

He tries to kick with both legs; tries to rush forward – the guards hold him still, and he might be speaking, pleading with Ducard to just let him die, but –

_“Bruce…”_

_He stretches out a small hand, hesitant, fearful._

_“Bruce… it’s okay…”_

Rough hands pluck at his nipples, work them to a flushed agitation before clamping each one into a heavy pincer.

“Say it.”

_Wings fluttering, brushing his skin, every incessant screech ringing in his eardrums until they become one final death-cry –_

_“Wallets, watches –“_

_The man has a gun, there’s a loud noise like a firework, it’s all he can think of, and his father is lying on the concrete and there’s blood, and this can’t be real, it’s a dream, it’s a movie, it’s not real –_

“Say it, Bruce.”

His body jolts with another broken scream when the weights are attached and pull mercilessly at his constricted genitals – there’s a disgusting smell, liquid soaking his chest all the way down to his throat, and he realizes it’s urine. Lights explode behind his eyes, noises, colors he can’t identify, this can’t go on, he has to die –

A wet, gloved finger brushes the smooth strip of skin behind his scrotum, seconds before the spot begins to burn with a wild intensity, and he only has to time to wonder in fits if they’ve actually taken a flame to his flesh before his gorge rises from the sensation. Vomit splatters the floor.

“Bruce –“

_\- He sees himself, he sees a child, a little boy crying, weak, helpless, because all that mattered was gone and the world had ended-_

_-Strong arms hold him close, rocking him, lips brush his cheek, the soft skin of his neck, pet back his hair –_

“- say it –“

_\- Listening to his heart, fingers barely touching the knit wool covering a quivering, tiny body -_

“ – say it – “

_“Bruce…”_

Something sharp works it’s way between skin and elastic and slices off the band, allowing blood to rush back excruciatingly into his all-but castrated organs, and his throat is raw, must be bleeding-

_“… why do we fall?”_

“ – SAY IT!”

“… I love you, Dad…” Bruce whispers, hoarse and broken, before his head falls limp on his neck and he only just hears Ducard murmuring before unconsciousness rushes up to meet him –

“Well done…”

 

*

 

When his eyes flutter open again, he’s lying on a blanket of yak fur in a larger, windowed room he doesn’t recognize. His clothes have been stripped away at some point while he was unconscious, and a pair of strong hands are busy rubbing something warm and smooth into his back with firm, gradual strokes.

He tries to speak, but only succeeds in whimpering.

“Hush,” a familiar voice soothes, before his head is lifted gently from the bedding and a cup appears at his lips. He can taste honey and herbs, and it feels good going down.

“You were magnificent…” Ducard murmurs as he rolls him over carefully, until for a moment Bruce finds himself cradled against his chest like a newborn, and it seems so strange that this utter beast of a man could know how to be tender.

Bruce’s mind is strangely quiet as Ducard bends down and softly kisses his lips, petting his cheekbone with a large hand, and the blankness continues when he throws his arms around the man’s neck, not allowing the contact to end, making desperate little noises he hadn’t known he was capable of before now.

Ducard tugs him away with five fingers fisted tightly into his hair, and tuts like an admonishing parent before dragging him back into to the furs and brushing his mouth down the line of Bruce’s throat, over his sternum and belly. Not a single kiss offered, only a barely-present tease of lips on skin that has the poor boy squirming in seconds, until Ducard finds some pity and lifts Bruce’s thigh to his smooth chest.

He flinches back from the first touch, still a little tender, but a firm hand holds his hips still for the first careful violation, slickened with boar fat.

“You’ll be thankful of it before this night is over.” Ducard warns him humorlessly, and after a moment’s thought Bruce lets his head drop back with a quiet moan, because that – he – _oh…_

For all the tabloid press surrounding his exploits in college, Princeton had yielded little to nothing in sexual experience – not that there had been any shortage of willing partners, but because he had chosen to smother down natural urges like a monk, livid sensuality constrained under clothing that was better suited to a man forty years his senior.

And while his hips dance, searching a little frantically for that elusive, teasing point of contact that Ducard had offered him only the briefest taste of, the thought of what is actually happening, the lightning fast realization _I’m having sex_ never enters his mind.

This is simply… something. Just a _something_ that he’s craved unknowingly for the past ten years, until rediscovering the feeling, if not the name, only hours ago when it was dragged, bleeding, out of his mind like another cry of agony.

If this is what a few moments of pain can earn him, than he’ll accept it gratefully, he considers in a sort of bleary, pleasured fog as his thighs are pressed firmly to either side of his torso and a warm heaviness sinks inside him.

“Open your mouth,” Ducard hisses against his lips, one massive hand cupping his face.

“Open it – _open it –“_

He does as he’s told, their tongues curl together messily, and Bruce can feel his legs tremble with each firm burst of pressure deep in his body, that he can’t control or escape from.

It’s frightening in a way, but the fear is tempered with a low, constant throb of physical pleasure, the hard press of Ducard’s body all around him like an impenetrable shield, and the hand stroking his brow…

He moans once, long and loudly with another deep thrust into his core, and outside the open windows an eagle’s scream echoes through the mountains as the sun begins to rise, bleeding red.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from "Kingdom of Heaven" where, let's face it, Liam Neeson basically plays the same character.
> 
> More kinkiness this time around, but not to the extreme it was taken to in chapter 1

 

 

Bruce has started thinking of the lake as “their” place, more so than the balcony where they watch the sun come up, and Ducard’s hands rest on his back, guiding his breathing as they meditate together – or even, more recently, their bed.

It’s a remote spot, surrounded by craggy blocks of ice-covered rock, and only accessible through an underground tunnel that spills out onto the frozen water. On their first visit, Ducard had told him a story, about how centuries before a great king had been buried beneath the surface of the lake so that he might guard his land forever.

Laying a gloved palm to the ice, Bruce had looked over his shoulder to the man kneeling beside him, and for a moment entertained a pleasing fantasy.

He doesn’t really see the point of sword fighting, the world has moved on from that (by leaps and bounds) but Ducard won’t be swayed, and anyway it’s not like his methods are entirely old fashioned – Bruce knows for a fact that he has the scientific division (they call it alchemy) working on some form of radioactive solute.

On an entirely different perspective, he can’t deny how fucking good Ducard looks with a sword in his hand.

They spend the early hours of the morning sparring through form after form, and Bruce notices his frustration building to do a heated battle with newly awakened desire at every new strategy Ducard chooses to startle him with.

“Broaden your thinking.” he growls once, nearly ramming the hilt of his weapon into Bruce’s jawbone. “The blade isn’t the only part of a sword!”

He deflects the next hit with his wrist guards, the shock quivering all the way up to his throat, only for Ducard to seize his arm and hurl him skidding across the ice as easily as flicking away a fly.

It takes exactly thirty-nine moves until Bruce is able to kick his opponent’s legs from underneath him, but his smug triumph at besting his hero is short-lived, once Ducard drops him into a pit of freezing water so cold it burns his skin. One can almost believe that an unquiet spirit, displeased at being disturbed, inhabits the place.

Ducard is strict enough to push him through several more practice forms until he corrects his error in judgment, and then leaves him to chop a mound of firewood while he fetches a meal. It turns out to be the massive foreleg of a mountain bear, and despite the harsh temperatures turning his lips and fingers blue, Bruce can’t help wishing he could have seen Ducard bring the animal down. He must have been absolutely majestic, every movement feline and sinuous…

“Rub your chest.” Ducard mentions later, once the meat is wrapped and cooking at the center of the fire. “Your arms will take care of themselves.”

Shivering, Bruce does as he’s told, and finds his breathing becoming a bit less labored.

“Now to the matter at hand.”

Bruce looks up, startled.

“You still haven’t spoken of him.”

“Who?” he asks shakily, but Ducard isn’t fooled by his pretended stupidity.

“Your father.”

“What does it matter? He’s -”

“Dead? Tell me, could a dead man haunt your every step and thought? Could the thought of his life being taken so brutally fill you with such an impossible, unbearable anger, strangling the grief until the memory of your loved one is just… poison in your veins, until one day you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed, so that you might be spared your pain…”

His voice grows softer with each word, and Bruce stares at him with growing realization and a lovesick boy’s longing to comfort.

Ducard won’t meet his eyes as he continues.

“I wasn’t always here in the mountains. Once I had a wife… my great love…”

For a moment he absentmindedly caresses a gold ring on his finger - a snake swallowing it’s own tail, and a garnet the shade of venous blood embedded in it’s head - but quickly remembers himself.

“What happened?” Bruce eventually asks.

“She was… taken from me. Like you, I was forced to learn that there are those without decency, who must be fought without hesitation, without pity…”

He falls silent, and for a time they simply listen to the branches cracking apart between the flames, until – with a hesitant sickness in his belly that he hasn’t recognized since he was a child, peering into the library to see his father in a woman’s embrace – Bruce forces himself to speak.

“… Tell me about her.”

From the look on his face, Ducard seems caught somewhere between wistfulness and excruciating torment, but he answers anyway.

“I saw her only once before… on a balcony in her father’s palace. She was wrapped in white silk, her hair unbound… and her eyes…”

He pauses, tightening his jaw, and only continues once he seems to recover.

“There are some who say that love cannot come in a single moment, from a single shared glance – in that instant, we knew otherwise. The marriage was… illegitimate by the laws of any nation, but we were content with vows exchanged between ourselves and before her God. I had only one night to hold her in my arms, but…”

The change is subtle, almost imperceptible, but in an instant painful recollection transforms to chilling rage.

“We never learned who betrayed us, and for that every man within that stronghold suffered the same fate. Vengeance is the only true cure for the agony we both know so well… and for what was done to her… my Sarit…”

Bruce avoids his gaze, focusing instead on the reflection of the firelight on the snow.

“Vengeance is no help to me.”

“No. But you can have your satisfaction against the corruption and decadence that made his death possible. As I swore I would upon her grave.”

Quiet settles again, while Ducard spears the roasted meat on a curved dagger and offers Bruce a decent portion, dripping with fat. They have to eat quickly, with their fingers, the juices spilling with each mouthful, but Bruce can hardly taste it or feel the heat scorch his tongue.

The more foolhardy part of him wants to ask if this Sarit is who Ducard sees each night while he thrusts inside him, but he’s too afraid of what the answer might be, and forces out a different question instead.

“The king, buried in the ice? … Did he have a lover?”

Ducard seems unsurprised.

“… Many.”

They begin scraping away the ashes of the fire, drowning themselves in growing darkness, and Bruce is glad of it, if it means he can hide his face.

 

*

 

“Up.”

With a grunt of discomfort, Bruce struggles back up to his feet, flushed and sweating from the exertion of the past four hours.

“Now show me what you’re made of.”

Sixteen men, deep chested and barely glistening with perspiration, watch dispassionately from each side of the training arena as they lean against the wooden slats or their own weapons, their part in the proceedings finished – merely awaiting the master’s approval of the student’s progress.

Snatching up his blade from the dust and pebbles covering the ground, he lunges into a frontal attack which Ducard blocks easily, highlighting the fault in the move with a razor sharp turn and a smack of the sword’s flat side to Bruce’s thigh. Had they been in genuine combat, his leg would be lying on the arena floor.

“Take a high guard – sword raised, like this.”

Horribly conscious of the many eyes fixed on him, Bruce follows his example and lifts the blade above his head.

“Strike down.”

He tries.

“Again. Sword straighter.”

Another strike.

“Again. Leg back, bend your knees. Sword straighter.”

Anger swells up in Bruce’s gut, and he grips the sword hilt as though he’s strangling a murderer.

It’s been three days since their morning on the lake and Ducard’s story, and ever since phantom jealousy and self-loathing have hooked their claws into him, have him convinced that he’s made an idiot out of himself for thinking, like any damaged virgin, that the first fuck meant something special – both to him, and the man he’s come to think of as a second parent.

Ducard is sighing with displeasure.

“You haven’t been a spoiled child in years. Stop behaving like one.”

“Am I likely to be fighting off thugs with a broadsword any time soon?” Bruce snaps back as the blade clashes against a spiked gauntlet.

“This has nothing to do with swordsmanship. Defend yourself.”

Fury and confusion make him clumsy. He’s on his back in the dirt within three moves, Ducard’s heel against his throat.

“Disappointing.”

Bruce fumes and tries to worm his way from under the stranglehold, but it remains firm.

“After al this time, I’d expected more from you. Luccsson.” he barks, chilling blue eyes never leaving Bruce’s gaze for a moment.

“ _Eazim Wahid.”_ the addressed soldier replies instantly.

“The Shanghai operation is now under your command. Report to Grigor for specific orders. And as for you –“

Bruce forces himself to continue looking back, despite the disappointment at the self-won punishment crackling under his skin.

“Back to the chamber. One hour’s duration should be sufficient.”

 

*

 

When not in use, all ten beads are kept in a small box of carved ebony on an alcove shelf, and the worst part of the process is the slow walk to the corner, removing the lid, and gathering a handful of the shiny black discs, all the while tingling under Ducard’s merciless eye.

The beads are ebony to match the box, sanded and polished to a satin smooth finish without a hint of traction, and when applied to the lacquered wall have no purchase whatsoever – unless held firmly with a fingertip.

Sucking in a steadying breath, Bruce folds his legs into a crouch, as though sitting on an invisible chair, and begins arranging each disc under his fingers.

“At the right angle.” comes a stern direction from the other side of the room, and he allows himself a disbelieving shudder of distress before replacing the beads, this time balancing each one on it’s rounded edge, a sixteenth of an inch thick, between his fingers and the wall.

There are times that Bruce has to grudgingly admire the subtle viciousness of Ducard’s imagination. Press too hard with a finger, and the disc would over balance, falling flat or rolling out of reach. Too lightly, and it would drop from his grip altogether.

A single error, and the allotted time would begin afresh, no matter how fiercely the muscles in his thighs had begun to ache.

As he crouches facing the wall, both arms fully outstretched and every strained muscle beginning to shake, he can hear liquid splashing near the center of the room.

Tendons sting in protest all through his shoulders as he twists his neck to glance behind him, where Ducard is lounging on the piles of brocade cushions that make up a small conversation area, calmly pouring himself a snifter of milky chhaang wine as he observes Bruce’s current orchestrated dilemma.

He nods back towards the wall as if to say “go on,” and Bruce turns his head, quivering with helpless anger and making a desperate search for anything to focus on but the burn shooting through his legs. Balancing the discs would offer sufficient distraction, if it weren’t for the struggle to balance his entire body weight on the balls of his feet as well.

It had taken him four tries to successfully complete the time limit the last time he’d been punished this way, but then, the allotment had only been for ten minutes. The question of how he’s supposed to endure this for six times that length almost has tears stinging the corner of his eyes.

He manages for almost three quarters of an hour before his thumb slips. One bead drops to the floor with a clatter, and his eyelids flutter.

“Sixty minutes.” Ducard murmurs gently as he picks up the fallen trinket and works it back into place under the offending finger. “Start again.”

He tries. Another bead falls thirty minutes later, and twelve minutes after that his foot drops flat, disrupting his balance and his tenuous grip on those precious discs. They rain down on the floorboards like hail, and he collapses with a sob.

“You aren’t focusing.”

“I – I can’t –“

“We will not leave this room until you do. Get up.”

Bruce quickly discovers that his legs seem to have no interest in supporting his body weight any longer, and after a long struggle of arranging himself in a ballast position to evenly distribute the pressure, he has to wait as each bead is painstakingly replaced under his fingers.

By now, his face is tear-streaked.

The shadows crawl across the floorboards gradually, and he wonders how much longer his sentence can last.

Inwardly, he knows he has only himself to blame. If he had remained in control, if he hadn’t allowed pride to get the better of him –

“Breathe.” a deep voice growls, resonating through his skull, and he does his best to obey, shakily.

_“Breathe.”_

His eyes close, and he centers every remaining bit of energy on filling his lungs with air, exhaling slowly. When his eyes open again, the edges of his vision seem to wobble.

“I told you, it had nothing to do with swordplay. It was about patience and concentration. When a student finds difficulty grasping the crux of a lesson through one form, it becomes necessary to find another.”

Bruce is panting, fighting to control each breath, and the pain has begun to spread up his back –

“Enough.”

With that one word, it’s as though a thread has been snipped, and he collapses to the floor on his back, whimpering, his legs tangled in a numb, tingling heap.

He’s allowed only a moment of relief.

“Stand and go to the bathing chamber. I’ll be there shortly.”

“I can’t move…”

“You could move well enough when you were told to be still. You’re responsible for your own actions, Bruce, and I don’t ever intend to carry you. Go on.”

The bathing chamber isn’t strictly a part of the building, but rather a subterranean cavern carved out by axes or perhaps more modern methods. It’s lead into by twenty-seven steps and the surrounding rock floor is rough and uneven.

Bruce stumbles twice, gripping at the walls for support, and crying like a child – not from anger, or physical pain, but rather from crippling shame at having failed.

It isn’t until he’s crawled to the edge of the underground spring that Ducard seems to decide that he’s been punished enough, and helps him out of his sweat-stiffened clothing. True to his word, he doesn’t carry him, but allows him to lean heavily against his chest as they wade into the deeper water, towards the center of the lake where water drizzles from an open crater in the stalactite-riddled ceiling, pumped up from the lake by an elaborate network.

It showers over their heads and shoulders, and as he gulps down mouthful after mouthful of melted snow, Bruce slowly, painfully begins to notice feeling creeping back into his limbs.

“’M sorry.” he mumbles later once they’re back upstairs in the main room, and he’s been settled by the fire with a warm drink.

“You’ll always learn from each mistake.” Ducard replies simply, while he continues massaging liniment into Bruce’s traumatized calves.

The logs have melted to ash in the hearth before he speaks again.

“Luccsson will still be leading the Shanghai assault. I’m sure you understand why.”

Bruce hangs his head regretfully, and nods. The order was given in front of the men, and anyway, there wouldn’t be much point to discipline if the penalty were withdrawn due to softheartedness.

He’d been looking forward to that mission – specifically, to the glow of pride and approval he’d find in Ducard’s gaze when he returned, covered in dirt and glory.

The disappointment chafes like a raw wound, but Bruce tries to put it out of mind.

“It’s late. Come.”

Obediently, he allows himself to be led across the room, where he slips off his linen tunic and stretches naked on his stomach across the fur bedding. Moments later bare, warm muscle covers his back as Ducard murmurs soothingly against the nape of his neck;

“Now… tell me about your father.”

With a quiet sigh Bruce arches up his hips like a cat in heat, and tells him.

 

*

 

It takes a month before they weed out a planted MI6 agent.

The man’s cover might be faulty, but his interrogation resistance training seems to be bulletproof – enough so that even the careful attentions of Ducard’s chief rack master prove unable to break him after four days.

Bruce can’t help but find their lack of imagination irritating.

“Give me five hours with him.” he asks quietly, over a late night game of Senet.

The firelight casts gold shadows over Ducard’s features as he glances up from the board.

“You’re overestimating yourself.” he replies, before moving a piece diagonally.

“Argyris has nine times your experience in these matters –“

“ – Argyris only has experience in inflicting pain. And enjoys it too much to focus on results.” Bruce interrupts brazenly, tossing the dice out to a pair and a six, a flawless continuation of his winning streak. His smug look and raised brow are a clear double-edged challenge, and from his near indiscernible huff of silent laughter, it’s a provocation that Ducard accepts.

“Well then, my nestling,” he croons, almost condescending as he rattles the dice out of the hammered gilt cup. Two, four, and one. Pitiful.

“- what would be your approach?”

Bruce shrugs, affecting carelessness, before rolling another success.

“Fear will crack through the psyche better than anything man could create – you taught me that firsthand, remember?”

Ducard gives him an indulgent smile, as if humoring a fantasizing child, while he gathers the dice back into the cup and gives it a brief shake.

“And if I forbid it?”

“And if I ignore you?”

The dice rattle onto the board. Three of a kind. A winning blow.

Ducard shifts another playing piece to the edge of the board while Bruce groans his defeat through a lip-bitten grin.

“Then I suppose the question is simply… should I be merciful?”

He glances back from the game to his eager-eyed pupil, and the corner of his lip curls into a smirk.

“Hm… I think not.”

Bruce chokes on an elated gasp as Ducard snatches him by the ankle and drags him onto his back in the cushions, before ripping open his calfskin tunic with a titillating show of brute strength.

They both know perfectly well that the unspoken wager was meaningless – Ducard would have had him anyway.

 

*

 

When they carry him out of the cell on a stretcher two days later, the dog bites on Bruce’s chest have turned red and sore, his face feels puffy from the bruising, and the toes connected to his fractured tiba have become concerningly numb.

According to the prisoner, British Intelligence believe themselves to have details about the base location of the League, and plans are underway to storm the fortress in eight days, now that their contact with him is lost.

It’s incredible what a man will reveal to a fellow inmate, after almost a week of believing he’ll die alone.

If the signal refraction array is working correctly – and it should be, Bruce helped design it, Ducard’s pleased smile had stayed with him for weeks – then MI6 will be launching an attack on the peaceful Shaun Hills in Burma, about five hundred miles away. Such a mortifying failure and the resulting diplomatic fall out will guarantee that any future attempt at takedown is bottlenecked for months by bureaucrats, leaving Shanghai ripe as a heavy peach for plucking.

Bruce rasps out the details through his parched throat as the infirmary medics hook him up to IV bags and begin injecting antibiotic, while Ducard listens impassively.

After a long moment, he kneels onto the floor beside the pallet, and turns Bruce’s face towards him with a single, outstretched finger, before backhanding him so viciously that his head bounces.

Judging from the sting, the blow broke open the already swollen skin covering his cheekbone, and he swallows back the growing nausea and the fear that this was all for nothing, preparing himself to take Ducard’s ice-cold fury at his disobedience like an equal.

A thumb traces through the fresh blood on his face, and a warm palm cups his aching jaw, petting back his unwashed hair. Ducard leans in close, until their foreheads almost meet, and his lips brush gently over the corner of Bruce’s mouth in a ghost of a kiss.

“You’re ready…” he breathes at last, and through the bleariness as others try to mend the wreckage of his body, Bruce manages a smile and lets his eyes flutter shut.

 

*

 

With Initiation complete, they strike Munich, and after Munich, Houston. Every assault requires months of precise planning, and it’s all too easy for Bruce to lose years in seeking Ducard’s approval – which, when granted, steals long, luscious hours of flesh and sweat and seed.

He doesn’t have the courage to ask for any stronger emotion.

It’s midwinter, and beyond the shutters, the wind shrieks like a spurned lover while ice batters the wall. He wonders vaguely if they’ve passed Christmas in Gotham. Years ago, Alfred would smile over the rim of a rare glass of sherry, three fingers too full, while Bruce basked in the glow of the flames leaping in the gilded hearth, encircled by his father’s arms…

Unyielding strength encircles him now as he stokes the fire, and a rich voice that after all this time he knows as well as his own heartbeat breathes into his hair.

“You’re only silent when something weighs on your mind.”

Bruce leans back into the embrace, and squeezes one of the black-gloved hands resting on the curve of his hip.

“Nothing. Just thinking about the past.”

“And now?”

He holds his tongue, drops the blanket draped over his shoulders and allows the lush press of bare skin to wrapped leather and wool serve as an answer.

Almost an hour later, the storm outside has reached a terrifying frenzy, but the fire is hot in the grate, while thick furs and the warmth of another man’s body, pressed close, envelop him safely.

Ducard’s blue eyes linger on his face with an unfamiliar sort of wistfulness, and he offers no complaint as Bruce touches him idly, tracing fingertips over his collarbone and the network of scars littering rugged muscle.

“You can’t remain here, you know that.”

Bruce sighs, with a hesitant grin.

“That disappointing, huh?”

“Don’t belittle your own ability. I’ve watched you accomplish in three years what it takes most men a lifetime to achieve.”

His tone is completely devoid of any humor. It’s abashing.

“Then wouldn’t I be more useful to you –“

“Bruce… when I found you on that pier you were lost – but I believed in you. I thought if I could take away your repressed fear, you could rise above it and attain something extraordinary. I… underestimated human weakness.”

“Then I _have_ failed.”

“Not failed – only smothered the pain of a broken heart by offering it to another man.”

“Henri…” he breathes, his mind stuttering, but Ducard only pets his hair away from his brow and continues.

“True belief in a creed like ours cannot be engendered – it is present from birth, like weakness or sanity or courage. You were meant for the world, not to be hidden away in the mountains, masked and cloaked.”

“So why keep me here?”

He laughs softly, in a rare show of self-deprecation.

“Selfishness, perhaps. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but you _are_ heartbreakingly lovely.”

His palm strokes Bruce’s thigh, rose-gold in the firelight.

“You can’t ask me to leave, not now.” he protests, trembling – because the universe can’t be that cruel, God, if there is a God, couldn’t tear his father away only to dangle happiness so cruelly inches out of his reach, like Tantalus’ fruit.

Bruce curls his fingers around Ducard’s jaw, thumbs caressing the sharp angles of his face and the lines that shadow each frigid eye.

“Henri, I lo-“

“Hush.” He’s interrupted brusquely, before an arm snakes under his knees and topples his balance, weighting him back into the piles of fur and cushioning.

“Were you a woman, I would give you a child… “ Ducard murmurs into the shell of his ear, strangely mournful even as blunt fingernails claw down the muscles of his abdomen.

Blood rushes to the surface of Bruce’s skin at the thought, and he moans.

“… But you must content yourself with a memory.”

For an indescribable moment, Ducard almost seems uncertain, until he finally slips the garnet ring off his finger and presses it to his lips like a benediction, a ghost of ancient passion and suffering crossing his face.

“This was given with ardent love to me. You have been my joy, little one.”

The band is a loose fit as he eases it onto Bruce’s thumb, before twining their fingers and pressing his hand to the bedding.

“… May you find another just as worthy.”

They don’t share many words after that, only moans and gasping and half-choked names while Bruce’s lover works him raw.

Lover, father, elder brother, friend…

There’s a burn of friction with the first thrust that makes him scream, caught between alarm and overwrought arousal, but it dissipates quickly once clever fingers rediscover a tiny erotic spot down the side of his ribcage. With a flash of inspired boldness – and perhaps revenge for his humiliation on the lake, all those years ago - he overturns Ducard onto his back with a twist of his legs, and _oh_ , being taken was sweet, but this little flutter of power – rocking his hips inch by succulent inch, forcing every movement against that perfect place tucked up inside him, and every lip-bitten quiver of pleasure caught by Ducard’s unbreaking gaze – this is ecstasy…

Bruce shivers wildly the moment it all crests and breaks over him, and then he’s being turned on his knees, oversensitive, not allowed to rest…

“Drink.”

There’s a chalice offered by the hand not riding his hip, tugging him back against warm, flexing thighs, and as he gulps down the wine Bruce notices the pattern of one of the brocade pillows imprinted into the skin of his palm.

A watery red droplet trickles down his throat like blood, and even though there’s no wound to soothe Ducard runs his thumb along Bruce’s lower lip, like a mother pressing a kiss to a bruise on her child’s knee.

He’s taken three more times before falling asleep, hazy from the drink, and it isn’t until he wakes up in a peasant’s hut at the base of the mountains that Bruce realizes he should have recognized Ducard’s impassion as a farewell.

 

*

 

Whoever was responsible for doing the actual work of turning him out, happened to be kind enough to pack an essentially useless antique cellular phone in the duffel bag he’d found next to him, but there’s just enough satellite reception for Bruce to transmit a short encoded message – tiny and obscure enough for any idle listener to ignore, except the intended recipient.

At least this proves once and for all that Alfred’s stories about Bletchley Park and code breaking didn’t go unappreciated.

A gentleman’s gentleman through to the bone, Alfred asks no questions when he shows up with the private plane and all throughout the flight, but Bruce knows damn well that he won’t get away with silence forever – four years can’t be entirely empty.

Besides, his appearance doesn’t exactly proclaim innocence. He gets his first glimpse of himself in a mirror for several months when he slips into the onboard washroom to clean up, and it’s a bit of a shock – his hair has grown, just brushing his shoulders now, and there are bruises half-hidden under the crusting of dirt that could (and a few do) have some violent connotations.

The bed sheets are too smooth to bear sleeping on, so Bruce paces back and forth in the cabin, restless and fighting to come to terms with the fact that his – whatever it was he shared in the mountains – is actually over.

For a short while he considers turning the plane back, beating on the gate until Ducard relents and accepts him back, but a gently chiding voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Rachel keeps reminding him that he’d only be setting himself up for more heartache.

 

*

 

Coming back from the dead isn’t easy.

There are social security forms, and bank statements and a Federal Bureau or two that need to be satisfied, and while his attorneys are able to field most of the paperwork, it’s Bruce who has to handle the competency hearing, the medical exam, and several court-mandated legal interviews – because when a multi-billion dollar trust fund is at stake, Wayne Enterprises, or more specifically, Richard Earle, will want to be certain that he isn’t a damn good surgically altered imposter.

Alfred, by comparison, is a bit more lenient, and gladly hands back ownership of the house, though the promise of a roof over his head isn’t much comfort. The place still feels like a tomb.

But despite all the technical details still waiting to be resolved, the news that Gotham’s crown prince has been apparently resurrected is lapped up eagerly by the media, and it’s within thirty minutes of GCN’s breaking news coverage that Rachel comes dashing into the mansion foyer, drenched from the rain and red-cheeked.

Bruce isn’t able to say a word before she smacks his cheek, and flings her arms around his neck, holding back relieved sobs that they both know she’s too proud to let out.

“Four god-damn years – and you couldn’t call once just to mention you were alive?!”

“I… needed some time to clear my head –“

“I had to speak at your funeral!” she hisses, fingers squeezing the back of his skull.

“I – we _all_ had to grieve, and you weren’t able to spare a thought -!”

He lets her vent for nearly six minutes – she deserves that much – but once she’s collected herself the over-conscious smile he knows a little too well comes back, and she chuckles, embarrassed by her own emotion and refusing to meet his eye.

“I’ve gotten you all wet…”

“I think I’ve got a few spare shirts stashed away somewhere.” he quips, trying to put her at ease.

“Not if Earle has his way – he’s been suggesting to every press outlet who listens that you’re a scam artist from Bremen.”

“I’d heard Yugoslavia.”

They make their way up the hall stairs and into the library, and it isn’t until several hours and a bottle of scotch later that she finally brings it up.

“…I’m seeing someone.”

For a few moments too long, Bruce isn’t sure how to respond, but eventually settles for pouring her another drink and hoping that the sudden rush of envy – for her happiness and shared intimacy – isn’t immediately obvious from his expression.

“Is he good to you?”

She smiles a bit wistfully, her eyes bright from the liquor, and leans back into the couch cushions.

“A knight in shining armor.”

 

*

 

It’s Alfred’s groan of disapproval that wakes him up a week later, but the rush of sunlight that floods the room when the curtains are violently pulled back definitely seals his fate.

“Did I miss breakfast?” he grumbles from under a pillow.

“Four hours ago, sir.”

When it becomes obvious that the butler doesn’t intend to go anywhere until Bruce shows some signs of life, he shoves back the covers before dropping abruptly to the floor and launching into a round of one thousand push-ups. Old habits are hard to break.

“At the risk of sounding an utter fool, do you have an agenda for the day?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“With respect sir, you’ve been holed up in this room for longer than is strictly healthy. People will start wondering if Bruce Wayne actually returned from the dead at all –“

“Let them talk – we both know I can take gossip, it’s a family talent.”

Alfred carefully settles himself on the window seat, and watches the last few exercise cycles with an unimpressed scowl.

“You’ve been trying to put on a good show, and I understand that, sir – I’d probably do the same in your place. But wallowing in self-pity gets you nowhere –“

Bruce opens his mouth to fire back an indignant retort, but is cut off by a snapped finger that apparently still has the ability to scare him into silence, ever since childhood.

“- and take it from an authority on these matters; the best way to tend a broken heart, is by finding distraction.”

For a moment, Bruce tenses in alarm, afraid he’s been caught out, but suddenly realizes that Alfred must think he’s mourning Rachel. Who else could he know about?

“So, what do you suggest?” he mutters, crawling off the floor with an air of conceding defeat.

Alfred seems satisfied with the performance, because the tension gradually evaporates between them.

“Now that your identity is officially restored, I thought you might want to take an interest in your father’s legacy.”

“I thought Earle had driven that into the ground?”

“Not entirely – there are still a few charitable organizations headed by the Wayne Foundation that he seemed to feel… beneath his dignity. Food pantries… retirement communities… the childrens’ refuge… and besides, a billionaire playboy who appears interested in good works will do a far better job of rehabilitating his company’s image, than one who barely deserves the title.”

Shrugging on a t-shirt, Bruce sighs and relents as much as his dignity will allow.

“… I’ll think about it.”

 

 

*

 

Blowing through a bit of cash proves to be even more effective than talk therapy, not that Bruce really has much experience with either.

In any case, it offers the right impression – and a great photo-op - to the tipped off press when he pulls up to the local boys’ home in a jet black Bugatti and a tailored three-piece that’ll probably make Giorgio Armani dizzy when he sees the revenue account.

There are kids squeezing up to the chain-link fence while he’s shaking hands with the caretakers, all anxious and shoving for a good look at him. It reminds him forcibly of a prison yard, and there’s an unpleasant awareness that were it not for the sheer fortune of birth, he would have spent his childhood rolling in greying mulch along with them.

If Bruce didn’t already despise Richard Earle for his sister’s tryst with Thomas Wayne, then the way this place has been left to decay would certainly seal the man’s fate. The Arkham inmates get better food in a day than motherless children do in a week, and the fact that they all stare at him like some sort of benevolent god is strangely telling.

He’s happy to be a god for them, the way Ducard had for him – taken a lost child and given him back the desire to live, even if he can’t give every little boy inside these walls the chance to feel what real, guiding love could be, the way it was taught to him when he had no one else…

Bruce is already in the process of writing an astronomical check, despite the half-hearted protests of the priest-in-charge, when something brushes the small of his back.

“Sorry –“ a child’s budding voice mutters deferentially, and when he turns to offer a reassuring word Bruce finds himself struck dumb.

The boy’s eyes are downcast as he drags off an aging portable television, but a rosy flush is already dusting his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, and it’s endearingly lovely…

“Don’t worry about it…” Bruce manages after a moment, before beckoning him over.

“…What’s your name?”

He looks up, and offers a hesitant smile that Bruce remembers all too well, loaded with those first, nervous flutterings of undeveloped desire –

“Richard.” he mumbles, and in that flawless second Bruce realizes that it’s crystalline clear – he’ll be the one.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a completely OC version of Dick Grayson that I invented to fit into the nolan canon.
> 
> Fair warning for a pretty fucked up relationship dynamic.
> 
> With thanks to Vladimir Nabokov, and to Mary Harron for the shower scene in "American Psycho."

 

 

It’s November ninth.

In two days, Richard will be fourteen, and the fostering arrangement will be finalized.

It’s a happy coincidence for the PR office, who already have the local news networks buzzing about “an orphan’s best birthday gift” and the usual saccharine nonsense that’s only cranked out to give morning commuters something to allegedly smile about – comical, when most of Gotham is too busy drowning in their own cynicism to smile about anything.

 

There are voices drifting up from the front hall when Bruce pauses on the staircase early in the morning, still in the process of buttoning his shirt, and it’s a credit to persons he’d prefer to forget that he’s able to listen around the corner completely unnoticed.

Invisibility is only patience and agility, he’d been told once.

“… not so long ago, I would have been honored to call you ‘Mrs. Wayne.’”

“Alfred…” Rachel replies softly, as if she’s afraid of what’s about to follow.

“ – But I think we both know that day is past.”

“He won’t miss me. He’ll be too busy playing house to think about it. So will you.”

“Well… it may be pleasant having a child in the mansion again, but I can only hope –“

“Rachel!” Bruce cuts in, entrance timed carefully as he fastens his cuffs. “You’re a bit early if you wanted an introduction – he won’t be here until three.“

“Actually, I came to say goodbye.” she interrupts, her tone careful as she offers her hand for a friendly clasp, but he doesn’t doubt that he’s meant to notice the flash of a diamond on her finger.

“… I guess I owe you congratulations?”

She colors a light peach.

“It was… sudden, but – we’re going to Detroit for a few weeks, Harvey has family there, so –“

He can tell that the smile on his face is too wide to be considered disarming, but perhaps it’s just as well. It’ll seemingly confirm what the two of them already suspect – that he’s putting on a brave front to hide his lingering feelings for a childhood sweetheart.

“Give him my best – he’s a lucky man.”

“You have no idea.” Rachel giggles, shaking her head as though the subject is well-worn, before rising onto her toes to give him a chaste peck to the cheek.

“Good luck, Bruce.”

“You too.”

She smiles, and walks out the door, the collar of her peacoat pulled up against the autumn wind.

 

*

Richard – or Dick, as he prefers to be known – settles into manor life with all the greed of an impoverished teenager who’s suddenly been thrust into Ali Baba’s cave. If Bruce had been expecting a difficult transition – offering to help with household chores to the point of exasperation, waking up over early with the assumption of work to be done – he’s a bit disappointed. Dick lounges about the house like an odalisque, leaving a marked trail of oreo containers and sprite cans behind him.

Alfred has to hire additional help before the end of the first week.

Not to say it goes by without a single problem. It doesn’t take terribly long before Bruce works out that Dick is stockpiling food and knives in his bedroom, but that’s probably indicative of a long series of issues that only a psychologist could untangle, and Bruce isn’t interested in putting the boy through that. If Dick wants help, he’ll ask for it.

 

*

 

“I can’t sleep.”

Bruce glances up from the building plans scattered over the library carpet, and finds Richard leaning heavily against the arched doorframe, dressed only in a pair of loose pajama bottoms, his dark hair bed-mussed.

“Bad dreams?”

He shakes his head and flops into one of the wingback chairs, long legs dangling over the arm.

“Mm-mm. Just wanted t’ see you.”

Something flutters in Bruce’s stomach, but he chooses not to reply.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Just some calculating, ‘see if we can add some space onto the city penthouse.”

Dick snorts.

“Nerd. Let’s do something fun.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“So? You’re still up.”

A one-sided smirk curls over Bruce’s face.

“Actually, I might have an idea…”

He climbs to his feet, and offers a hand to the boy slouched carelessly in the chair, who snatches it with an eager giggle.

In a few minutes they’re sneaking through the marble hallway, the tiles ice cold under bare feet, and past the baize door into the servants’ hall and the kitchen just beyond, playfully shushing each other like misbehaving children.

Dick watches with bright eyes and a full pink lip caught between his teeth, while Bruce grabs a tin off the top shelf and a pair of spoons.

“I used to sneak down here all the time and eat this stuff when I was your age –“ he half-whispers as they settle cross-legged on the kitchen floor, and he pries the can open.

“Are you serious? Condensed milk?”

Bruce pushes a spoon towards him with a teasing grin.

“Just try it –“

“You are so weird!” Dick snickers.

“C’mon, just once?”

Groaning a little, Dick eventually relents and scoops a drop or two of the stuff onto the spoon, before carefully licking it off, and the twists and flutters of his little pink tongue _really_ shouldn’t be having such an intense effect on Bruce’s insides.

“Holy _shit_ -!”

“Told you so.” he mutters, smirking as Dick proceeds to shovel spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, almost whimpering at the taste.

“I fucking love you, this is amazing.”

They’ve almost emptied the tin when Bruce notices a spot of cream-colored liquid at the corner of Dick’s lips, and can’t keep himself from reaching over to smear it off with his thumb.

Dick freezes, leaving Bruce to wonder for a horrifying moment if he’s completely misjudged the situation, but then Dick taps gently at his own lower lip.

“You’ve got a little too. Right there.”

“What? No, I-“

He brushes his fingers over the spot, and they come away clean.

“There’s –“

Suddenly Dick’s fingers are smearing sticky, thickened milk all over Bruce’s mouth, with an impish expression.

“See? Right there.”

Then he jumps forward and Bruce has a lapful of slender, pulsating teenager, who’s pressing their mouths together and running his tongue along the seam to Bruce’s lips, demanding entry.

He whimpers quietly, and concedes.

Dick’s soft and warm and squirms like a kitten, his fingers tightening in Bruce’s hair as his hips rock to and fro, and… well, he’s not entirely soft, that’s for damn certain.

“Wait –“ Bruce gasps, a little frantically, while he tries to wriggle out from under the boy’s grip.

“Hold on, not – not here.”

Dick pouts, but lets go long enough for them both to scramble off the floor and make their way back to the hall, hands clasped.

“I need to grab a few things – meet me in the garage in three minutes?”

If Dick’s confused, he doesn’t show it – he only nods once before giving Bruce another firm kiss, loaded with anticipation, and scuttles away down the side passage.

Three minutes fly past, but by the time Bruce reaches the carport, a black duffel bag swung over his shoulder, Dick is already hopping up and down with the impatience of a much younger child.

“Are we taking the bike?”

“Yeah. Hold on tight.”

It’s difficult to concentrate on setting up the Agusta correctly while the fourteen year old snuggles up against his back, but somehow he manages to disengage the safeties and get them zooming over the property trails, illuminated by security light.

The mansion may have undergone a few renovations over the years, but the old stables haven’t been touched. Call it nostalgia.

They both hold out long enough to yank the blankets out of the sack and spread them across the loose hay in one of the stalls, before jumping each other with an enviable urgency.

Sweatshirts and pajama pants are yanked off indiscriminately until they can run their hands over bare flesh, and for a fraction of a second Bruce wonders if, from the anxious look on his face, Dick hasn’t suddenly lost his nerve. But then the moment’s over and Dick tumbles underneath his body, tugging and shoving until he has Bruce aligned exactly where he wants him. There are no florid statements of devotion or lust-drenched demands, Bruce simply slicks himself up with a handful of Vaseline, and gingerly eases inside.

Despite what most of Gotham society likes to believe, it’s his first time penetrating anyone, and from the first mind-mangling thrust it’s obvious that this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly – but Dick’s stamina is no better, and after one particularly hard push that jars a spot he was likely never even aware of until tonight, he wails, clamps down _hard,_ and that’s all it takes to have Bruce gasping against his neck.

Once they have their breath back, he lies down with a silent, indulgent smile, and lets Dick run slim hands over his chest, pick straw out of his hair. Playing with him, naturally curious.

His fingers skate along one of the thickened lines of scar tissue that curve a few inches under Bruce’s nipple, and abruptly that troubled look is back.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, and Dick swallows, clearly uncomfortable.

“Nothing, it’s just… no, nothing.”

The kid’s shit at lying. If they’re going to keep this up – and Bruce isn’t exactly planning to put on the brakes, after tonight – then that’s something they’ll need to work on.

He sighs, and lifts one corner of the blanket, letting Dick crawl underneath and snuggle up against him. Their feet tangle together between the covers.

“Talk to me.”

It takes a minute, while Dick is still caressing that damn scar with his fingertips, but eventually he speaks up.

“… I had an uncle. He, um - he drank a lot too.”

Despite the heat making sweat bead on their skin, Bruce suddenly feels cold. He considers keeping his mouth shut, letting the boy continue to think he’s found a kindred spirit, a fellow survivor, but ultimately he doesn’t want to get caught in a lie.

“Actually, it was a dog.” He mumbles.

Dick sits up, staring at him, while the blanket pools around his trim little hips.

“What?” he giggles disbelievingly, and the tension is over.

“It was a _big_ dog.”

Dick’s eyes narrow over his grin, and Bruce guesses that he’s chosen to take this as deflection. No matter; it’s his decision to interpret the truth as a lie.

“What about this one?” he croons, tapping an almost perfectly circular pad of scarring on Bruce’s shoulder.

“Got shot at in Houston.”

“Got shot, you mean.” Dick sasses, and Bruce flicks his hip with a fingernail.

“And here?”

Ah. This one will be difficult.

“Um… it was a… hunting whip.”

Dick raises a brow, and smirks.

“Kinky.”

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask about any of the others – instead focusing his attention on the marks left by a Tibetan mastiff, running his lips along the raised skin and skimming it lightly with his teeth, before swirling his tongue playfully around an erect nipple.

Bruce doesn’t keep his control for much longer after that, and it’s only a few more minutes before they’re both moaning again.

“I love you…” Dick eventually pants, hands looking for purchase on sweat-slick skin, and Bruce squeezes him close.

“No, not yet… but soon.”

 

*

 

Autumn sludges on into winter, and while Dick struts around the mansion with the timeless, lewd grin of every teenage boy who’s joined the oldest club in existence, Gotham continues to churn like a fucking meat grinder.

Carmine Falcone dies unexpectedly (and somewhat ironically) from an alcohol-induced stroke, and the immediate resultant infighting between his many _capos_ provides a spotless opportunity for the newlywed power couple at the District Attorney’s Office to close in with all their might.

With his customary public geniality, Bruce offers to hold them a congratulatory evening at the penthouse, and doesn’t take a polite refusal for an answer.

People tend not to suspect you of any wrongdoing if you seem eager to get prosecuting lawyers under your roof.

The household relocates to the city home several days before the event, to give the social secretary time to arrange things, and they grab the opportunity to explore the wealthier corners of Gotham, that still see daylight.

Dick seems to take all of the pampering as nothing less than his due, and perhaps it’s this newfound sense of entitlement that brings him into the marble tiled bathroom early one morning.

Like the bed sheets in the next room, he’s still languid and rumpled from sex, and a white t-shirt hangs overlarge on his delicate frame.

He’s formed a habit of reclining on top of the sink vanity so that he can watch Bruce in the shower, an oddly possessive smirk on his flushed little face as he looks his fill, but this time, instead of merely watching he climbs off the shelf and slips under the spray with him.

Delicate, soft kisses are placed deliberately along the his shoulder, before Dick noses at his hairline, lips brushing the nape of his neck as his fingers tease cleverly over the dip of Bruce’s hips.

“You like me touching you, huh?” Dick purrs, overly seductive, but Bruce could care less, as long as he keeps kissing that spot on his neck, just below his earlobe, and God, his hands are so close…

“You want more?”

He plasters himself against Bruce’s spine, both palms massaging the tendons that work through his groin and down into his thighs, pulling more and more blood up to the skin until he’s hard enough that it’s a struggle not to whimper.

“So you know how my allowance is five hundred a week?”

Confused and a little too turned on to think, Bruce nods.

Dick slides both hands between his thighs, the skin still slippery with shower gel.

“Well, I think it should be a thousand.”

He’s gripping him now, working with firm, steady pulls that suggest he’s been paying a lot more attention in bed than Bruce has given him credit for.

“Am I right?”

He jacks him faster, and the rhythmic motions almost distract from his free hand curling around Bruce’s throat.

“I said, am I right?”

All of Dick’s fingers start tightening their grip, and even though he’s holding on to the kid’s wrists, trying to maintain some semblance of control, Bruce can see spots dancing at the edge of his vision – though he can’t be sure if that’s because of that lack of oxygen, or an impending climax.

“Seven-fifty.” he chokes, a half pleading compromise, and he knows without looking that Dick has started to pout.

His grasp slackens, and while air rushes back to Bruce’s head, he’s still painfully aroused and doesn’t seem likely to get any relief.

“Mm, I really do think it should be a thousand.”

“Richard, please –“

“A thousand?”

“Yeah, ok –“

“Every week?”

A fingertip swipes across the head of his erection, where he’s already leaking precum like honey –

“Alright, ev – every week, _jesus –“_

Dick shoves him back against the shower wall with a puckish smile, and Bruce has only seconds to appreciate the t-shirt smothered against the boy’s torso - transparent from the water and only just revealing the pink tones of bare skin – before Dick is straddling him, offering a blatant invitation which he unquestioningly accepts, not a single thought in his head for the consequences.

 

*

 

Wayne Family occasions have always been less about hospitality and enjoyment, and more an opportunity for Gotham’s rich and shameless to claw their way into prominence among the social circle of the city’s first family.

It seems that no one took the time to warn Harvey Dent about this fact, Bruce notes with a twinge of secondhand embarrassment as the lawyer actually attempts to engage some of the other guests in an intellectual conversation, after a round of polite but pointless introductions. For a man they’ve taken to calling Gotham’s Scourge, he really is sadly out of place once he leaves the courthouse.

Bruce, meanwhile, continues to affect what he’s started calling his “simper,” for the benefit of all the taloned dowagers who used to throw themselves at his father, now displaying their daughters in front of him like racehorses.

After all, most of them suggest, with the barest veil of subtlety, a young boy needs a mothering figure for a proper upbringing.

He doesn’t doubt they used the same line on his father as well.

An interminable stretch of time passes before he’s able to escape from the endless parade of Crystals, Terries, and Tabithas and their oh-so charitable plans for volunteer work in some suitably impoverished region of Africa, and slips onto the balcony for a breath of air.

At this altitude, Gotham is deceptively beautiful – like a bright red flower blooming in the center of the desert sand, before you notice the scorpion in the shade of the leaves.

The familiar clipped step of stiletto heels tugs him back to the present, but the meticulously prepared show of air-headedness evaporates – somewhat – when instead of another harpy painted with layers of foundation, it’s Rachel.

Her arms are crossed, and her lips have tightened up in that manner which, Bruce knows from experience, means he needs to tread lightly.

“Your protégé is currently throwing calamari from the second floor landing.” she mentions matter-of-factly. “I asked him to cool it, he gave me the finger.”

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“He’s looking for attention, just ignore him.”

“Or maybe you could lay down a few boundaries.”

“I have.” he mutters, swirling what’s left of the bubbly in his champagne flute, because it’s true – Dick still had the welts on his thighs from that morning several weeks ago when he’d backtalked at Alfred over breakfast, and Bruce had quietly but firmly needed to lay down the law with a riding crop.

For all his enticing naivete, Dick can be an utterly exasperating little brat.

“Then I would say your methods aren’t working.” Rachel fires back, but there’s a humiliated shine to her seagreen eyes that goes past the expected frustration with a rowdy teenager.

Just as he notices, the gleam spills over into several tears.

“Rachel –“

“How long have you been sleeping with him?”

His shoulders stiffen, and his vision seems to tunnel while flicker-images of Dick riding his naked hips in the afternoon sunlight, a sweat-hungry fly landing in fascination on a pink-brown areola, flash unbidden through his head.

Who has she talked to?

The cleaning staff are paid handsomely for their discretion, and Alfred can’t know – Bruce has no doubt he’d already be booked and arraigned if the butler had the slightest evidence to back his own suspicions, and he’s been too careful for that, or so he’s thought. Dick is always sent back to his own room by the morning, and Bruce is careful to rearrange the bedcovers to suggest a restless night of sleep, rather than carnal enjoyment between a sweet-faced criminal and his pubescent whore.

Confusion and shock cloud his judgment, and he mentally chokes on his own stupidity when all he’s able to say is;

“Did he tell you that?”

Whatever lingering hope was left in Rachel’s face shutters.

“No. But you just did.”

She turns to leave, but when he grabs for her arm, she wheels around and shoves him off, both hands raised as if in surrender. A champagne glass shatters on the tile.

“Rach-“

“I was a victim’s advocate for three years, Bruce – I know how to recognize what I’m seeing, even if I’m not looking for it. And that – _child_ , isn’t exactly subtle.”

“Rachel, please –“ he half-begs, eyes wide, but she shakes her head, staring at him as though he’s gradually morphing into something horrifying, and her actions hurt him far deeper than he could have anticipated.

“I don’t know what happened to you, out there – I don’t want to know."

Her gaze fixes on the gold ring riding his thumb.

"When I heard you were back, I… but you never came back at all, did you?”

“… Are you going to tell Harvey?”

Her eyes flutter shut. She wets her lips.

“… We were friends once. Maybe we could have been more, but – all I wanted was for you to be happy.”

She turns on her heel, only to pause, one tapered hand resting on the door handle.

“Bruce… if I saw it, someone else will too.”

The spotless glass door swings shut gently behind her, and he’s left alone on the balcony.

For a moment he’s tempted to run after her, demand a direct reply, but he’s afraid that if he’s swept into that glittering, airheaded crowd, he’ll only see glares of suspicion in effusively attentive faces.

Hours pass and the evening deteriorates, but when the mantel clocks chime two am and Dent still hasn’t stormed onto the terrace with cops in tow, Bruce hesitantly considers that he might have been granted a reprieve.

His legs are stiff, and the bright interior lights are almost blinding at first, after hours of confining himself to what little illumination bled outside, but he manages to navigate around the catering crew as they try to repair the evening’s damages. He’s only just laid a hand on the banister, mind fixed on a certain door upstairs decorated with a handmade sign, black marker scrawled unevenly onto lined looseleaf –“keep out!!! this means YOU!!!” – and the hard-won spoils beyond, when Alfred startles him from a side door.

“Excuse me, sir – we seem to have a slight problem –“

“For chrissakes, it’s been a long day, can it wait un-“

“I think not; we’re being burgled.”

The turn of phrase turns Bruce up short.

“’Being?’ Right now?”

“Well… almost.”

 

*

 

The person handcuffed to the chair is smaller than Bruce expected, and once Alfred has left the loft to phone the police department, he doesn’t lose time in surrendering to curiosity and tugging off the black knit balaclava. A pair of large brown doe eyes are abruptly staring back at him with so much loathing he’s amazed that he isn’t already an ash mark on the hand-painted wallpaper.

Her hair is knotted up messily at the nape of her neck, ruffled from static electricity, and Bruce would be willing to bet his trust fund that the baggy black sweats she’s wearing are hiding a figure that most of Gotham’s debutante glitterati would commit en-masse slaughter for, but what really intrigues him is the pair of night vision goggles dangling around her neck.

It’s none of the models put out by Wayne Enterprises, and isn’t sleek or sexy enough to be Stark Tech. In fact, the imprecise welding on the plating almost points to it being a homemade job. Bruce is no genius, but he’s not exactly average intelligence either, and even he’s not that good.

“Pretty fancy for a sneak thief.”

“I make do.” she grumbles, not breaking their shared glare.

Bruce hasn’t smoked since Princeton, but he’s suddenly craving a burst of nicotine as the first seeds of an idea begin taking root.

“What’s your name?”

“Not one you’d know, Mr. Wayne.”

Several different voices from the evening twine together in his head, Rachel’s thin-lipped expression of disgust and betrayal superimposed over top…

People may look, but unlike her, they’ll see only what they want to see. And Dick will be safe. _He_ will be safe…

“Looking at you, I’d say this isn’t your first evening out on the town –“

“Very perceptive –“

“- so what if I were able to call off the cops, guarantee you zero jail time, in exchange for a… mutually beneficial favor?”

She sighs, long and overdrawn, and rolls her eyes.

“That’s a proposition?” she asks silkily, but he drums his fingers against the sideboard, shakes his head.

“Not exactly.”

 

*

 

“The police will be arriving presently, sir –“

“Change of plan, Alfred – grab some of the leftover dom, and, um… six glasses? We’re celebrating.”

“Obviously.” Alfred replies drily. “To what purpose?”

Bruce shrugs, and begins peeling off his evening jacket.

“I’m engaged.”

 


End file.
